ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come, see the north wind's masonry !
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions, with projected roof,
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work,
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel, he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn,
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work;
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, returning, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;
As something, loudly, in my breast
Remonstrates I have done,
Thou knowest that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,
Do thou, All-Good! - for such thou art -
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have erred,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.
Yes! let the Rich deride, the Proud disdain,
The simple pleasures of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm than all the gloss of art.
UPON that night when fairies light,
On Cassalis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the rout is taen,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray an' rove
Amang the rocks an' streams,
To sport that night.
Amang the bonie, winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, And shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly, countra folks,
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks,
An' haud their Halloween,
Fu' blythe that night.
The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they're fine;
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin':
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs,
Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs,
Gar lasses' hearts gang startin
Whyles fast that night.
Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail
Their stocks maun a' be sought ance;
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale,
For muckle anes an' straught anes,
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift,
An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail,
An' pou't, for want o` better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail,
Sae bow't that night.
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar an' cry a throu'ther;
The vera wee things, todlin, rin
Wi' stocks out owre their shouther;
An' gif the custocks sweet or sour,
Wi' joctelegs they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,
Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them,
To lie that night.
The lasses staw frae 'mang them a',
To pou their stalks o’corn:
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast,
Loud skirled a' the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
When kiutlin in the fause-house,
Wi' him that night.
The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits
Are round an' round divided,
An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates
Are there that night decided:
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
An' burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi' saucy pride,
An' jump out owre the chimlie,
Fu' high that night.
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e’e;
Wha 'twas she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, and this is me,
She says in to hersel':
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him,
As they wad never mair part!
Till, fuff! he started up the lum,
An' Jean had e'en a sair heart,
To see't that night.
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